


Thanksgiving in Baker Street

by DonnesCafe



Series: Baker Street Thanksgivings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Holiday, Love, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2677187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson decides to host an American-style Thanksgiving in Baker Street. It turns out everyone has something to be thankful for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving in Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> A post-Reichenbach AU which takes place in November of 2013 (and assumes the fall was Nov 20, 2011)

Rain misted the dark air all around him. Already winter in London. John flipped his coat collar up against the damp chill, then he was sorry he had done it. The collar flip made him think of Sherlock. So many things still made him think of Sherlock, who had died two years ago yesterday. Too many things still reminded him of Sherlock. 

He was on his way to meet Greg Lestrade at the Red Cow for a pint. He regretted saying yes. It was near St. Barts, and it was Friday night. Wasn't that the traditional night to meet your mates at the pub? It just reminded him he didn’t have mates anymore. He still avoided everyone from his old life with Sherlock when he could. 

Besides, he was suspicious of the agenda. John figured Greg could have three things on his mind, and John wanted nothing to do with any of them. He didn’t want to talk about the DVD Greg had left with the box of Sherlock’s things last month. He didn’t want to reminisce about Sherlock. He didn’t want to be talked into attending Mrs. Hudson’s ridiculous Thanksgiving dinner next week. 

He had moved out of Baker Street last year. Too many memories. Six months after Sherlock died, he was still in Baker Street, surrounded by everything Sherlock had left behind. One evening, after two stiff shots of Jameson’s, he realized he was talking to the skull. He had turned it around to face the wall, but that hadn’t helped. He put it in Sherlock’s bedroom, but then found himself sleeping with it in Sherlock’s bed, burrowed under the duvet that still, after all those months, smelled a bit like Sherlock. Chemicals, cigarettes that he had hidden from John, rosin, and some mix of scents that was Sherlock alone. John lay in the dark trying to place them. Orange, Darjeeling, musk, cinnamon, and something else that eluded him. Something like very good whiskey. If he cried that night, only the skull knew it. The next day he started looking for a new flat and a job. 

Ironically, Mike Stamford was the one who found him the job in the A&E at St. Bart’s. It suited him down to the ground. Long hours, regular shots of adrenaline, good use for his combat nerves and training. It kept him busy. He found a new, blessedly sterile flat with no tangible physical traces of his old life except for his clothes, his laptop, a few books, and the box that Greg had brought. He found a girlfriend and started a relationship that he had pursued doggedly. He even asked Mary to marry him three months ago. She turned him down, smiled sadly, and said, “You’re not over him, John. I don’t know if you ever will be.” The fact that he hadn’t missed her frightened him. Maybe he should have brought the skull with him from Baker Street. He started taking extra shifts at the hospital again. 

But it was Friday night, he was tired, and he was lonely. So he was meeting Greg for a pint in spite of his better judgment. He pushed open the heavy, old door and looked around. He loved this pub. Old, noisy, old brass chandeliers, worn wooden floors. Everything a pub should be. He returned the waves from a table full of doctors he knew slightly. This was Bart’s pub of choice, tucked up on Long Lane near the hospital. 

Then he saw them. Greg had brought Molly. Bloody hell. He sighed, but they had seen him. He couldn’t nip outside and call with some made up story about a pile-up in the A&E. 

“Hello, Molly,” he said, returning her hug. Shook hands with Greg. Sat and raised the pint of bitter they had gotten for him. 

“Cheers,” he said, taking a swallow. Then, “Look,” he said, “I’m not up to reminiscing, ok?” 

“Yeah,” Greg said, “that’s fine. We just wanted to see you. It’s been a while.” 

“And you wanted to talk about Mrs. Hudson, I’ll bet?” 

“John,” said Molly, “she thinks of you as a son. She thought of both of you as her boys. She’s hurt. She doesn’t understand why you haven’t been to see her. Haven’t even called.” 

John shrugged, and took a long drink of the beer. He had felt guilty about that for a long time. He loved Mrs. Hudson, but for months after he left Baker Street he was trying to get himself together. Start a new life. Every time he thought of her, it just seemed like too much. His balance was precarious at best. 

“She really wants you to come to this Thanksgiving dinner she’s doing next week,” Greg said. “It would really mean a lot to her. To all of us. We miss you. It’s not about Sherlock. We miss _you._ ” 

The truth was that he missed them, too. Maybe it was time. 

“So what’s this about Thanksgiving, then. It’s an American thing.” 

“She thought it was a holiday that doesn’t have any memories for anyone except her. She thought it might be a good way to ease back into all of us being together again,” Molly said. “She doesn’t have much family here. None of us do. I think she’s hoping to make it a tradition.” 

“Besides,” Greg said, “she and Sherlock celebrated Thanksgiving in Florida together the year he managed to get her husband executed. She said she’s still thankful for that and would like to recreate the meal.” 

John actually laughed. “Celebrating an American holiday in honor of an execution. Sounds about right for Baker Street.” 

Molly reached out and put her hand on his. “Please, John. We miss you. And none of us have really gotten to talk about Sherlock. We miss him, too. Don’t you think it’s time?” 

Maybe it was. 

~~~~~ 

So he found himself on the next Thursday standing on the sidewalk outside 221b in a cold drizzle juggling two bottles of pinot noir and the key which he had never returned, put away, or misplaced. For two years he had carried it on his key ring. If he had put some of the observational skills Sherlock had tried to teach him to work, he would not have been surprised at the ending of his relationship with Mary. 

He stood looking for a long moment up the stairs, then turned aside and knocked on the door of Mrs. Hudson’s flat. She stepped out and enveloped him in a hug, working her way carefully around the wine bottles. 

“I’m so sorry…,” John started, but she broke in. 

“None of that,” she said, “you’re here now. I’m so glad you came.” She tightened her arms around him for a moment, then turned away from him. He caught a glimpse of her eyes as she turned, suspiciously moist. But, then, so were his. He limped after her into the flat. His limp had gradually returned since he and Mary had broken it off, but he refused to use a cane. 

Voices, laughter, and delicious smells were coming from the kitchen. John took a deep breath. A strange, warm feeling spread through him, starting from around his heart. He realized he was happy. He hadn’t felt that in a long time. 

“John!” Molly exclaimed, “You’re here.” John could hear a faint echo of Sherlock’s voice, “Always stating the obvious!” He had pushed away that voice for so long. Now he was glad to hear it. 

He put the wine down on the counter and went to give Molly a kiss on the cheek. 

“Happy Thanksgiving, I guess? Is that what the American’s say?” 

“Yes,” Molly said. “Mrs. Hudson has been explaining the customs to us. Apparently eating until you can’t eat any more, watching American football on telly, and family gossip and drama if appropriate.” 

“Well, there’s no football on telly, American or otherwise,” said Greg. “But I can hold my own in the eating department. I was on a case all day and haven’t had a bite since breakfast, so count me in.” 

John smiled and went over to shake his hand. “Greg, thanks for getting me here. I hadn’t quite realized how much I missed this. How much I missed you all.” 

Lestrade shrugged. “We understood. It was hard on all of us, but you most of all. But don’t you think it would help if we all quit pretending that we don't need each other? I, for one, loved the daft bugger. There are so many great stories. I want to be able to talk about him. Ok?” 

John nodded. He realized that he, finally, wanted to talk about Sherlock. To remember him with friends. With family. They were, he realized, the closest thing he had to family, since Harry was bloody useless. He only saw Harry when she needed him. 

Molly and Mrs. Hudson seemed to have the cooking well in hand. It was to be a totally American Thanksgiving menu, Mrs. H announced. She had scoured London to find everything she needed with a little help from Molly. The cornmeal for the cornbread for the stuffing had been problematic, but Molly had finally found stone-ground cornmeal at a pricey health-food emporium. Mrs. Hudson lamented the fact the she had been unable to find any pickled peaches anywhere in greater London. John shuddered to think what pickled peaches might taste like, but they were apparently an essential part of the meal in the Southern United States where Mrs. Hudson had lived with her drug-dealer husband. 

Dish after dish came out of refrigerator and oven and pantry. An impressively browned turkey, dressing, something covered in what looked like toasted marshmallows, a cut-glass bowl of something to do with cranberries. Molly was stirring bacon and brussels sprouts in a copper pan. They laughed, drank wine, and told stories. John even told them about talking to the skull. Mrs. Hudson stopped slicing green beans into julienne to come over and hug him again. Then she handed him the knife and told him to finish the green beans while she checked on the pies. 

She then handed John and Lestrade each a casserole of undetermined content and told them to take them to the dining room and set the table. 

“You do the plates and cutlery,” said Lestrade. “I’ll do the napkins. Swan or Sidney opera house?” 

“What? Where did you learn to fold napkins?” 

“First wife liked to give dinner parties." He shrugged. 

“Swan,” said John. “That’s sort of close to a turkey, isn’t it?” Lestrade laughed and started folding. John was secretly impressed. He started putting plates around the table. 

“Wait. There are six plates. And six chairs.” He had just noticed that. “Who else is coming?” 

“Don’t know, “Lestrade said. “Maybe neighbors? Or Mrs. Hudson does have a sister and niece somewhere in England. Maybe they’re coming?” 

John shrugged and tried to remember where the salad fork went. He was disappointed. He had hoped it would just be…. well, them. Family. 

Just then there was a knock on the door. John heard the door open. He put down the forks to go see who it was. 

Mycroft Holmes. Holding two bottles of wine in one hand and a jar of something in the other. 

“Pickled peaches!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. “Where on earth did you find them! And how did you know…?” 

“Elementary, Mrs. Hudson. I knew you would need them and that they were not to be found in…,” he stopped suddenly. Mrs. Hudson saw his eyes go to John. Saw his smile die slowly. She took the wine and the jar from him and stepped back. 

“Dr. Watson. John,” said Mycroft, looking uncertain. “I hope it’s alright….” He stopped again. 

“Of course it’s all right,” said John. “Of course it is.” And it was, John thought to himself. Mycroft looked older, thinner. There were new lines scored around his eyes and mouth since John had last seen him. His brother had died. John sometimes forgot that. 

John came up to him, hand outstretched. “It’s good to see you, Mycroft.” 

“Thank you. It is good to see you as well. Although,” he said, his voice dropping as Mrs. Hudson went into the other room, “this pretext of an American Thanksgiving is a bit bizarre.” 

“Well, maybe we all needed an out of the ordinary excuse to see each other, don’t you think?” 

“Perhaps you’re right.” 

“Come into the dining room,” said John. “Lestrade and I are setting the table. There's already wine open in there.” 

“I’d be grateful for a glass,” said Mycroft. He looked, and sounded, nervous. Something was ruffling the surface of the usual icy, public-school, superior-wanker calm that always made John want to slap him. Perhaps he had been nervous about seeing John considering their last encounter at Sherlock’s funeral. Or perhaps he was nervous about being around Sherlock’s friends, all of whom probably blamed him to a greater or lesser extent for Sherlock’s death. Yeah, John could use another glass of wine, too. 

~~~~  


When they finally all sat around the table, candlelight picking out glints of old silver and crystal, John thought he heard it groan under the weight of food and wine. 

Mycroft tilted his head toward the empty chair to his right. “Anthea sends her apologies, and I add mine as well. It was kind of you to invite her, Mrs. Hudson. There was a last-minute crisis, and I’m afraid I left her to deal with it.” 

“The poor girl,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Well, you’ll just have to take her a plate.” 

Mycroft grimaced, and John smiled. The thought of Mycroft walking into some steel and glass tower of the intelligence bureaucracy with an old-fashioned china plate covered in tin-foil was…delightful. 

Lestrade carved the turkey, they passed bowls and platters. The heaped plates that resulted looked both delightful and slightly intimidating. Mycroft checked his phone twice as the platters were passed. Must be a real crisis, John thought. 

When everyone had settled, John stood. “I’d like to make a toast,” he said. 

“Oh, John dear, of course,” said Mrs. Hudson. 

“To friends. Present and absent.” He had intended to say more, but he couldn’t. Strangely, Mycroft’s face had gone white, and he didn’t lift his glass for a long moment. Then he did. 

“To friends,” everyone said. They started to eat. 

“This is amazing, Mrs. H,” Lestrade said. 

“Well, I’m just glad you’re all here with me,” she said. “I’d like to start a custom of doing this every year if we all can. And part of the custom is that we have to go around the table and each say something we’re thankful for. Then we drink. Is that alright?” 

They all nodded. “I’ll go first,” she said, “because it’s an easy one. I’m so thankful that you’re all here with me today. You’re like family to me. And, Mycroft Holmes, I know what you’re thinking. I would like you to be part of this family. It’s what Sherlock would have wanted.” 

“Hear, hear,” said John. Mycroft looked down at his plate and took a deep breath. Then he looked up. “Thank you, I’d be honored.” They all lifted their glasses and took sips. 

“Who’s next,” prodded Mrs. Hudson. “Detective Inspector?” 

“Well, first,” he said, “you can call me Greg if I’m going to be family.” He smiled. “Ok. What am I thankful for? I’m thankful that I lived through another year on the force and that Molly is sitting beside me.” 

They all laughed. Molly blushed. “Well, I’ll go next,” Molly said. “I don’t have much family, so I’m grateful for Mrs. Hudson and for all of you.” But she was looking at Lestrade when she said it. 

Well, well, thought John, smiling. More wine. Silence fell for a moment as they all enjoyed the wonderful food. Mycroft checked his phone twice more. 

“I’ll go next,” said John. “I know I haven’t been the best friend…,” John started. 

“Oh, John dear,” Mrs. Hudson interrupted. “We all understand. More than you could possibly know…” 

Since John was sitting beside her, he just reached over, took her hand, lifted it, and kissed it. 

“Yeah, well. What I wanted to say is that I’m thankful for all of you. And, most of all, I’m thankful that I knew Sherlock Holmes. He was the best, the bravest…” 

“Oh, for the love of God,” said Mycroft, punching viciously at his phone. “Finally.” Then he turned to a flabbergasted John and said, “I am so sorry, John. Sorry for interrupting. Sorry for… many things.” He was pale, but there was a strange smile on his face. 

“I must beg your pardon for interrupting, but now I can finally say what _I’m_ most thankful for.” 

Silence fell. In that silence, they heard the door to the street open. Then the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat opened. 

“I’m thankful that my idiot of a brother is still alive.” 

Footsteps came toward the dining room. 

“Barely,” said Mycroft, a strange mixture of exasperation and jubilation in his voice. 

In the arched entryway to the dining room, with one arm across Anthea’s shoulder and the other braced on an elegant black cane, stood Sherlock Holmes. 

There was a long moment of silence. Dead silence. Then… 

“Oh, you poor boy, you look _terrible_ ,” said Mrs. Hudson. 

“Sherlock!” squeaked Molly. 

“Oooh, you bugger. I should have bloody known,” said Lestrade. He turned to Molly, “Did _you_ know?” Another inarticulate squeak from Molly. 

"Anthea, help him sit down," said Mycroft. 

All of this happened pretty much simultaneously. 

Only John was silent. Then his chair scraped back, and he stalked across the room. Sherlock, already pale, went, as the song says, a whiter shade of pale. He took his arm from around Anthea’s shoulder. Then he took two halting steps into the room, leaning heavily on the cane. 

“John…,” he said. 

“Shut. Up.” John closed the space between them. He ran his hands into the dark, tangled curls, as he had so often dreamed of doing, and looked at Sherlock so fiercely that Anthea, still standing in the archway, took a step back. 

“John…,” said Mycroft. 

“Shut.Up.” John never took his eyes off Sherlock's. Then he drew the taller man's head down and kissed him. The cane clattered to the floor. Sherlock sagged against John, and John's arms went around him. They kissed for a long moment. Then Sherlock drew his head back and drew in a shaky breath. 

“John, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t…,” 

“Shut. Up. Don’t care. Just shut up.” He was rather obviously holding Sherlock up with one arm around him. John touched one pale cheekbone tenderly, then followed the touch with another kiss. 

“Shall I help clear, then, Mrs. Hudson?” Mycroft asked. 

There was another long moment of silence. The kissing grew more intense. 

“I’ll get the turkey,” said Lestrade. 

“I’ll bring the p..plates,” said Molly in a rather breathy voice. 

“Let’s have coffee and pie in the kitchen,” said Mrs. Hudson. “John, dear. Sherlock. We’re having coffee in the kitchen.” She patted Sherlock on the shoulder as she passed. He reached out a hand, blindly. She squeezed it and moved past him. The hand found its way back around John’s neck. 

~~~~~  


They sat around the kitchen table for a while with pumpkin pie and coffee. Mrs. Hudson made up a plate of leftovers for Anthea. Then Mycroft took off his suit coat, rolled up his sleeves, and helped Lestrade with the dishes. 

”You knew?” Lestrade asked as he handed Mycroft yet another plate. 

”I knew. But he absolutely refused to allow me to tell anyone. Especially John. Molly knew because we needed her help at St. Barts. But Sherlock feared he would never come back. And I thought it likely that he would die. So we thought it best to let you get on with your lives.” He swabbed plates and silver, handing them to Lestrade without looking up. 

”You poor boys,” said Mrs. Hudson, taking another bite of pie. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Then he was captured in Serbia. When I got him back to London, he was barely alive. It was… touch and go… for three weeks. He just came out of the coma two days ago. When he found out about this dinner, he chose to _reveal_ himself in this dramatic way. The hospital would not agree to let him leave. Much against my better judgment, he insisted on leaving anyway, and in a clandestine manner. He... wasn't willing to wait any longer." 

“Always the drama queen,” said Lestrade, amusement in his tone. 

“Precisely,” said Mycroft. “He was so ill. I couldn’t say no. I apologize to you all for my part in this charade.” 

Mrs. Hudson came over and stood behind him at the sink. She put her arms around his waist. He went very still. She rested her head on his back for a moment. “You love him very much,” she said. It wasn’t a question. 

He nodded. She hugged him, then let him get on with the dishes. 

They heard the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat open and close. Heard feet going up the stairs, unsteady. Heard faint laughter. 

“A nice tradition, Thanksgiving,” said Mycroft, meditatively scrubbing the roasting pan. 

Something, or someone, hit the floor over their heads. 

“I just think I’ll put on some music,” said Mrs. Hudson. She reached between Mycroft and Greg and turned on the radio. It was on her favorite big band station. She turned up the volume. 

Lestrade stripped off his rubber gloves and grabbed Molly’s hand. He pulled her into a foxtrot. 

“That takes me back,” said Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft carefully rinsed the turkey roaster and set it in the rack to drain. He took off his apron, dried off his hands on a tea-towel, and turned to Mrs. Hudson. 

“May I have this dance?” 

“You certainly may,” she said. 

“So this is a yearly tradition now?” he asked as he swept her into a perfect ballroom hold. 

“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Especially since you found a source of pickled peaches. Or was it Anthea?" 

Anthea's mouth was full of pumpkin pie, so she didn't have to clarify. 

Mycroft smiled. The governor of South Carolina had owed him a rather large favor, but the less said about the jet the better. That had been Anthea's idea. 

Outside, the rain fell hard and cold through the November sky, but inside there was still wine left. The notes of _I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm_ spilled from the tiny speaker of Mrs. Hudson’s radio, wove themselves through the warm kitchen, then floated up the stairs.


End file.
